


Something so flawed

by lovespring



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America Sam Wilson, Coming Out, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Steve Rogers, POV Bucky Barnes, Panic Attacks, Peggy Carter as Captain America, Protective Sam Wilson, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovespring/pseuds/lovespring
Summary: "Nothing wrong with enjoying the benefits of the job, Barnes.""We’re at a charity event.""You can't pick up at a charity event?" Sam sucks his teeth. "Weak."Sam and Bucky get invited to a lot of public events. Bucky hates it. Bucky meets Steve who looks at him like a sunset on Coney Island and hates it a little less.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 109





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!!!  
> There is a third chapter to this fic! The bit in italics is actually the final paragraph that I typed up a while ago. Because of burnout and writer's block and everything that 2020 has thrown our way, this, along with many other wips, has been in my drafts for ages. I'm trying to kickstart things so u kno. I hope you enjoy this rambling little meet-cute anyway!!

_Now_

_Steve lets himself be pulled and arranged, shivering when Bucky kisses at his shoulder. “You and the captain have a thing today, you said. That’s why I should’ve gone home last night.”_

_“Nah,” Bucky says, pushing his nose into the crook of Steve’s neck. “You should stay here, always.” It’s a little possessive and Bucky’s about to apologize just on principle but Steve wriggles in his arms and squirms until they’re closer, his fingers drawing swirls on Bucky’s metal arm._

_“You gotta get up, though.” His voice is a whisper, breath hitting Bucky’s lips and Bucky can’t help himself - he kisses him, loose-lipped and soft._

_“Nah.” he says again, and the Brooklyn boy, beautiful and dreamy, laughs into the space between them, and when there is no space he stops laughing, smiling instead against Bucky’s mouth._

_Bucky thinks there is a word for this, bubbling and wholesome and lovely, and he thinks he could relearn that too._

* * *

_Before_

“You should take care of your face, by the way.”

Bucky doesn’t respond at first. He doesn’t respond to a lot of stuff Sam Wilson says but at the moment he’s also warding off three non-friendlies in the machine room of a container ship that’s about to blow up, so it’s not like he has a lot of options anyway. It’s not before the last mean-looking motherfucker goes down Bucky notes what Sam said in his earpiece. “‘S wrong with my face?” He asks, deadpan. There’s a trickle of blood tickling his upper lip and he lets himself be irritated by it before wiping it away, huffing. Red lights flash all around him and he breathes in hot, musty air trying not to let it throw him off. In his earpiece and maybe a couple of floors up, Sam answers.

“Nothing, pretty boy.” There’s scuffling, and Sam’s voice again, but softer and more serious. Civilians, dealing with the captives on the ship. Bucky continues down the hallway to where he knows there’s a control room, slinking along the walls. “Just try not to bruise too badly.” The control room is empty, meaning the traffickers were either trained in sailing, or they’d already killed the guy who was supposed to sail for them.

He turns around, feeling antsy with his eyes on the only exit. “Headed your way, captain.” He says, and Sam hums in affirmation.

“Victims are picked up, heat cams don’t show anything else on board. I’ll meet you in the front castle, you should have a clear way up.” Bucky does, the bodies he’s left behind notwithstanding. The serum in his veins, a bastardization of what they used on Peggy Carter back in ‘41 makes it easy for him to take the stairs even with the disgusting, heavy air of the machine room but he still breathes in deep when he’s topside, air sharp and clear and full of salt. The deck is lit by a few mast-high lamps, the ones not yet broken or on fire, and Bucky makes his way to the front castle, eyes on the blinking lights of the helicopters carrying the victims away. Bucky hopes that all of them made it out okay and he clings onto that little twitch of tenderness in his ribs, vulnerable as it is. Empathy comes to him in fits and starts.

Sam is looking out over the water, hands on his hips and shield between his folded up red-white-and-blue wings, looking every bit the American hero he deserves to be. Bucky wants to bother him relentlessly. “Awaiting orders, captain.” He says, stopping some meters behind him, and Sam laughs, disbelieving. 

“No, you’re not. Ready to roll?” Bucky nods and sheathes his weapons. Before he can hitch a ride Sam tuts and tilts Bucky’s head back with a hand on his chin. Bucky only lets him because it’s _Sam_ and because they’re alone. “Look at that.” Sam says, sounding like a mother-hen. Bucky’s _pretty_ sure there are armed explosives on the ship counting down as they speak. “Told you to take care of your face, stupid.” He swipes a finger over his cheekbone and now Bucky can feel the bruise forming there, a weak pulse under the skin. He shrugs and waves Sam’s hands away, only to grab onto his shoulder. There’s a carrier plane somewhere above him that they have to catch.

“Why?” He asks, not missing a beat when Sam takes off in a rush, carbon fibre wings bending out and lifting them off the deck. Whatever. The roller coaster on Coney Island was wilder than this. Sam flicks his goggles down and Bucky closes his eyes against the cold wind.

“There’s a gala event the day after tomorrow.”

“There’s a _what_.”

The explosion under them doesn’t manage to hide Sam’s laugh.

-

Bucky fucking hates gala events so much.

He’s relearning things, since his time as a failed science experiment with HYDRA. It took him three years to make a home out of the name ‘Bucky’ or ‘Barnes’ or even ‘James’, instead of

thinking of himself as the asset. The serum made him angry, unreliable, and HYDRA was too weak of an organization to spend all their time on him so many of those seventy years were spent in cryofreeze. Whenever he came out he was pliant and confused but his missions made him react, like he snapped out of it, so he was kept under lock and key most of the time, stowed away like an insolent pet. Since he came out and shacked up with Peggy - the original Captain America, though Sam’s doing a pretty good job - he’s been relearning things. Empathy and compassion by extent, and self-control, patience and happiness. Enjoying things for the sake of enjoyment. Peggy took him to the movies, a year after they were both literally and proverbially thawed out, and it was overwhelming and loud and he had to abandon ship halfway through, but it was okay because it was with Peggy. Peggy was thrown out into a world she didn’t understand as well, and until Sam Wilson, Bucky was convinced agent Carter was the only one he could actually relax with. Sam’s a dickhead, but it’s been five years since Peggy gave him the shield, and if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for him.

Bucky’s smart. He’s learning to be good, too, a normal person even though Sam insists he doesn’t have to do anything. But god, he fucking hates gala events _so much_. 

He has to fight not to grab onto the inside of Sam’s arm, clinging to his suit like a five year old in the mall. Their dynamic, even in the public eye works well with what Bucky’s comfortable with - he stands at Sam’s side, a little behind him. He’s more than fine with being a sidekick. “Chicks are into the strong silent type” Sam has said, and Bucky has wondered how to say that the feeling isn’t mutual without, like, talking about his feelings with Captain America. That was a lot easier when Captain America was a queer lady, if he’s being honest.

The event they’re at is of a congratulatory sort, he thinks. It’s a senator who’s throwing it and Sam says the senator’s an okay guy, so Bucky goes along with that since 21st century politics make him dizzy. The mansion that they’re in is the senator’s house, Bucky’s horrified to learn. It’s huge and colorless and there’s people all-over, expensive-looking and smiling, like there’s something really exciting happening. There’s press, too, with flashing cameras and microphones and Bucky can feel cold sweat along his neck at the prospect of answering questions. He’s glad they had make-up artists for this one, tries to remember the name of the smiling, seemingly completely unafraid college student who put his hair up in an elaborate but functional bun on the back of his head and took a selfie with him. They said “tight” when Bucky gave them permission to put it online, and he’s been repeating the word under his breath, answering half of Sam’s sentences with “tight”

“Carter should arrive soon.” Sam whispers to him. They’re just standing next to what looks like a banquet hall, smiling and saying hello to people. 

“Tight.” He whispers back and Sam swallows his smile, shaking hands with an older lady who looks like she wants to eat him alive. Bucky’s lips twitch in a grin. Sam is wearing what Bucky thinks is a dressy version of his stealth suit. An actual suit for one, dark blue, with a proper jacket, but one with silver in the seams, and little star-shaped cufflinks. No belt, but the shield is strapped into the holster on his back. Some people still need reminding. Bucky’s wearing black on black, matte boots because if he has to run somewhere he doesn’t wanna be wearing dress shoes, and a silver enamel star pinned on his lapel. “My suit’s itchy.” He says when the lady is out of earshot.

Sam laughs in a low voice, meaning that he’s exasperated but enjoying Bucky’s antics anyway. “You wear several pounds of strike team gear when we’re out on missions. You have a metal arm.” Bucky twists his wrists, the dark plates moving soundlessly. 

“And?” He says and Sam goes to open his mouth before spotting something behind Bucky’s turned head.

“Agent Carter!” Oh, _god_ , yes. 

Bucky follows Sam’s moves, turning to face the entrance hall where Peggy’s walking in, followed by two agents that Bucky knows - Fury and Hill - and a couple of photographers. She looks like Bucky a little, all black suit and done-up curls, except her lips and nails and shoes are red, high heels because she has talents that Bucky would never even dream of. There’s a silver-gleaming eagle pinned on her chest, and she’s smiling at both of them. If Bucky ever falls in love with a woman it’s gonna be Peggy Carter. She’s a melting pot of overwhelming compassion and curt, clipped consonants, pretty eyes and a warm smile and then stone-strong captaincy that leaves most red-blooded Americans weak in the knees. She’s earned her respect. Picking up the shield and saving the damn world back when grown men were throwing tantrums over a British woman being Captain America - and then a few times more, when she wasn’t under water. 

Bucky lets himself be pulled into a quick hug, Peggy’s hand staying on his shoulder when they part. “Gentlemen.” She wants to say something else but they’re attention is caught again, the senator who Sam thinks is an okay guy coming towards them with outstretched hands. Peggy propels herself forward and now Bucky’s standing between them, shoulders tucked behind theirs and it’s a very good place to be.

“Captain,” the senator says, “Agent Carter. If you’ll find your way to the banquet hall? Dinner and a show.” He says the last thing like it’s a joke that Bucky doesn’t understand, but Peggy and Sam laugh like you do when you’re being polite, so Bucky reckons he didn’t miss anything. He follows the two of them into the hall, and to his right he hears a voice.

“You’d think we were invisible, huh.” He smiles. Nick Fury, co-director of SHIELD before it went down five years ago. He’s a menacing-looking guy, hard to ignore so he’s probably not used to being treated like Bucky is.

Bucky shrugs and just says “Two Captain Americas in the room.” The other agent is Mariah Hill, who’s quiet and stern, and Bucky doesn’t really trust either of them but they’re nice to have when Peggy’s around. There’s even more people in the hall, and they’re directed to a table near the stairs to the stage, no doubt to make it easier for Sam to get up there when he’s having his speech. Bucky wishes he brought his phone. He doesn’t like sitting down and feels his eyes flitting over the room when they’re seated. There’s no table behind them, but the door is in on the other side of the sea of people which makes him agitated.

“Don’t pull on your collar.” Peggy admonishes when the senator has left them. She reaches up slowly, eyes on his, and smiles when he lets his hands fall. “Just a quick bite. It’s barely even a dinner.” Bucky grumbles, ignoring Sam’s smile on the other side of Peggy.

“Tight.” Peggy pets his hand. A server comes to their table, bringing a tray with him. They get glasses of water and flutes of a bubbly drink, and then a second one brings empty wine glasses, two for each. This one rattles off names of wines, red and white and pink. Fury, Sam and Hill want a red one Bucky, and Peggy orders a rosé. When the server looks at him he waves a hand in Peggy’s direction. “What she said.” The two of them can’t really get drunk anyway.

“They don’t have beer in this place?” Agent Hill asks when the server leaves. Sam laughs and leans forward, because Sam’s a little sweet on her in the way he is on every woman who can kick his ass. Bucky rolls his eyes and tunes out his attempted flirting. Close to their reach, along the wall perpendicular to the stage, there’s a banquet table, full of food. It’s stuff to snack on, not dinner, like Peggy said. Bucky’s wondering when would be the appropriate time to go for that, when someone taps on a microphone and he turns.

The senator who Sam thinks is an okay guy is talking, bidding everyone welcome to the occasion. He talks about something called the _Honeycomb charity_ and Bucky figures out that the senator is the climate-oriented kind, which isn’t bad. Then he looks at their table and Bucky wants to hide behind his chair, only Peggy hooks her foot behind his ankle. As if he was actually going to do it. He tries to school his expression into something neutral as the sea of people grow eyes and turn them his way. The senator’s thanking Sam and Peggy, the agents of what used to be SHIELD, and even Bucky for their service to the country. He mentions the rescue mission a few days ago, says the term ‘human trafficking’ like it’s a ghost story and not the most profitable job in the world. It gives Bucky a bad taste in his mouth. After the welcome, some people get up again to mingle, or to draw to the banquet table. Bucky wants to get at that yesterday. Sam gets up first, motioning to Peggy and Bucky. 

“Let’s go.” He says, pushing in his chair. “You two look like the scariest twins alive, come on.” Bucky has also learned, since getting out of HYDRA, that he really likes food. It’s definitely an effect of the functional diet they had him on, but he remembers - when he remembers - the food before the war as well, how nothing tasted or smelled or looked as good as it does today. He doesn’t like oranges, and Peggy tells him that when his section was stationed in Africa, they got a shipment of oranges and it was the first fruit any of the men had seen in months, so they ate themselves sick on it. Bucky thinks he remembers the yellow hue of the soldiers’ skin, their eyes, their teeth, like an overdose. Cheese and meat and crackers make him feel like he’s back home in a weird way, remembering something he can’t taste or see or touch at all. He really likes strawberries, pomegranate, and melon. On the little wooden plate Sam puts in his hand he gathers light, sweet food that he knows will taste bright and watery in his mouth. Sam puts a piece of bread on there too, a slice of salami. 

“You need carbs, boy.” He says, like Bucky isn’t sixty years older than him. “And salt. Can’t survive on fruit.” Sam laughs when he makes a face and shakes his head in a childish impersonation. He can do what he _wants._ Back at the table Bucky leisurely eats his grapes while the others talk. His eyes run over the room, sticking on the decor. He’s learning to appreciate pretty things, colors he likes, movies and music and art. He tries not to look at people too long. He’s learning that people find that unnerving. 

Peggy and the agents are asked away by a woman with a tape recorder. She’s nice-looking but her eyes are sharp and hungry and Bucky doesn’t really trust journalists. Him and Sam are left alone at the table when they leave, Bucky returning to his slow nibbling and run-over of the room.

“See anything you like?” Sam asks, and Bucky has to look at him to get what he means. His eyebrow is cocked, and Bucky wants to tell him he looks stupid. When he doesn’t answer Sam continues: “What? Nothing wrong with enjoying the benefits of the job. She looks nice.” He points at one of the servers, a pretty black girl with freckles over her nose. She does look nice. Bucky knows Sam isn’t really serious about ‘enjoying the benefits’ because Sam isn’t a raging creep, but he also doesn’t wanna have this discussion.

“Pretty sure this is a charity event.” He says.

“You can’t pick up at a charity event?” Sam sucks his teeth. “Weak.” Bucky wants to punch him. He doesn’t punch him, because at this moment three different photographers flock to their table. 

“Cap.” One of them says, which is the public’s favorite and most hilarious stupid nickname for him. “You good for some pictures? Senator would like a few.” Sam is agreeable, stands up at once, but turns to raise his eyebrows at Bucky. The most annoying thing about Sam is that he’s such a good fucking person. Bucky waves a hand and nods, mutters “go on” and Sam taps his shoulder with a fist.

And then there was one. 

Bucky sits for a few seconds, but the thought of someone coming over to the table, effectively and literally cornering him outweighs the comfort of having an overview of the whole room so he gets up and brings his plate with him. Maybe some carbs now, like Sam said. People avoid him at the banquet - not like the plague, as he is the trusted companion and sidekick of Captain America, but like the morally questionable super soldier with the barest modicum of social skills that he is. There was a trial, years ago, that cleared his name completely, but people still have their reservations.

Bucky doesn’t blame them.

He still feels a little on the spot, as people push their way away from him, like two positive poles against each other. A few linger behind, sending him furtive glances. He’s also learnt, mostly from Sam and even Shuri, that some people find him very interesting. Maybe it is the strong and silent type. 

When he’s at the end of the banquet table he keeps walking out, away from where people are still talking. The air in the foyer feels fresher and even though the doors to the hall are open, the high ceilings and thick walls quiet the sound a little and it’s easier to breathe out here. People give him looks but he’s good at ignoring that, and he walks down a hallway right of the door, one with glass cases and art on the walls. When he turns a corner, letting the paintings lead the way he can hear footsteps behind, soft and keeping their distance like they’re following him with no intent. The sound of people dies away slowly and he turns around. He almost drops the strawberry he’s holding.

It’s a server, the same white pressed shirt as the others, but he doesn’t _look_ like any of the servers Bucky has seen. He’s big, Bucky’s height but with the dumbest shoulder to waist ratio Bucky’s ever seen. He’s pretty, too, dyed in spun gold and cotton candy and forget-me-nots, and he’s looking at Bucky with a smile in his eyes. “You like it?” He asks, pointing, and it takes Bucky a second to look at the painting he’s standing next to. It’s van gogh, something Bucky knows from back home without knowing how. Sunflowers.

Bucky nods and licks at the taste of strawberry of his lips. “Like the colors.” He doesn’t know what else to say. In a moment of panic he tries drawing on memories, what he used to say when someone this pretty was in front of him - but he doesn’t think guys like this one would appreciate being talked to the way he talked to rolls in the hay back when his sergeant’s uniform was starched and crisp-looking. It would probably feel strange in his mouth, anyway. Smalltalk and flirting are not things he’s relearned yet, even though Peggy tells him sergeant Barnes was a master at both. 

Instead he looks back at the server and uses what he has at his disposal. “D’ya like art?” He says, which is maybe one of the dumbest things he’s ever said. He can feel his mood sour, something that happens whenever he’s out and screws up, but the server just smiles at him, the corner of his mouth lifting. He moves a little closer, slowly. Bucky lets him

“I do. I studied it at college. Van Gogh’s not my favorite but I like the colors, too.” He sounds a little rambly, nervous maybe. Bucky could kiss him for making this easier on him.

“Who’s your favorite?” The guy shrugs, standing next to Bucky so they’re shoulder to shoulder, with a foot of distance in between them.

“Guess I set myself up for that one. I don’t know. Monet is an obvious one. The colours, again, _god_ , I could never do that.” While the server’s talking, Bucky rocks back on his heels, barely a couple of inches, so he’s standing with his shoulder behind again. He memorizes names. Monet he knows, and he likes the longing little sigh the waiter has in his voice when he talks about him. Degas, too, and Frida Kahlo. Baya Mahieddine is a new one, and William Kentridge who he talks about a lot. He watches the server’s profile out of the corner of his eyes, only mildly grasping for straws. Why is he here? Why did he follow him? Why are they talking about art, all of a sudden? Was he supposed to be pushed away from the crowd? What kinda server has upper back muscles like _that_ ? Bucky feels a trickle of paranoia in his throat, flexing his calf until the knife holster rubs noticeably against his skin. The guy’s cute. He sounds like a New Yorker too, a drawl in his tone that slips when gets excited. God, it would suck if he was a spy or something. He notices the server has stopped talking and Bucky panics a little, stumbling over words he could say when the server beats him to it. He points at Bucky’s face. “That looks like it hurts.” _That_ Bucky knows how to answer.

“I’ve had worse.” He says, which makes the server smile and for one stupid moment, all Bucky can think of is Coney Island, and Brooklyn in the summer. Too hot, sticky sweet and sunny, sunsets from the top of carnival rides. Blue and red coastal lines, pink and golden water.

Bucky’s Brooklyn-in-the-summer boy chews on his lower lip like he’s trying to bite through it. “Do you want ice for it?” It’s a weird request for two reasons: one, Bucky wasn’t kidding about having had worse, and it’s a small bruise, barely reaching further than the span of his cheek and two, they’re at a _party_ . Brooklyn notices Bucky staring, or maybe senses his hesitation and his jaw snaps shut, cutting himself off. He laughs. “Sorry.” He says, and his cheekbones go red. “That was weird.” Bucky wants to say something funny like ‘bet I could top that’, maybe just to see him blush some more, or smile again, but he also doesn’t know how it’ll sound coming from out of his mouth, or what to do with his face while he says it so he keeps quiet, smiling a little instead. “The captain sent me to come get you.” Brooklyn says. He cocks his head backwards. “He’s about to make his speech.” Bucky rolls his eyes at that, just because he’s learned being friends with Captain America has its perks, and one of them is getting to make fun of him whenever he wants to, no matter how unpatriotic it makes him look. He nods and lets the server - Brooklyn summer, Coney Island, sweet and home-sick, _god -_ lead him back through the hallway. Not a lot of people would turn their back to Bucky, so it feels a little wild seeing the server just walk in front of him, and it also means that Bucky has to actively keep his eyes off his ass or the length of his legs, staring down at the dragon fruit on his plate instead. His face feels hot when they’re back in the chattery noise of the banquet hall. “I’ll see you around.” Brooklyn says, still a little airy. 

Before he can stop himself, Bucky asks: “Will you?” Brooklyn stops, and goes wide-eyed when he realizes what he said and half intended insinuation of Bucky’s words. He stammers his way to a sentence, and then sharpens up when he remembers there are people around him. 

“I’ll be catering at the next event Captain Wilson and captain Carter are invited to. I thought - I assumed you’d be there? Sorry, I didn’t -”

“I will.” Bucky says, something light squirming in his chest. “Be there.” He has no fucking idea if he’ll be there. “So yeah, guess you will see me around.” He Brooklyn at the doors and stalks back to his table, because too much talking still makes him uncomfortable in his skin. His table is full when he comes back, and the senator is headed to the stage.

Sam smiles at him like they haven’t talked in days. “Thought you’d ditched us.” He says, reaching across Peggy to tap his shoulder again. “I sent a waiter out after you.” Bucky grimaces.

“Wouldn’t ditch you. Back now.” Peggy puts her hand on his again, soothing. He’s not spiralling or anything, but he wouldn’t mind if they wrapped up now. The senator starts talking again, and Bucky zones out a little, eyes drifting. He finds the server from before right away. He’s by the doors, arms folded in front of him. The servers walking around between the tables with bottles for refilling are smaller, mostly women, which is probably why Bucky didn’t see him before. He does listen when Sam takes the stage. Sam is pretty good in the public eye, charming and funny and a new century kinda man. It’s not his favorite thing, though, more attuned to group therapy and eye-level talking. Five years ago, when grown men were having temper tantrums about a black veteran taking on the shield, there was just as many people being hopelessly in love with him the first time he appeared on a screen. Sam gives his speech of freedom and injustice, turns the lense on the US itself which the journalists are gonna have a field day about. He gestures to their table to thank them for their help, and Bucky lets his eyes drop and then take off, flitting over the washed-out faces in front of him.

He looks at Brooklyn by the door again, finds him already looking back. The guy blushes to the roots of his hair and in spots down his neck, a strawberry red that makes his eyes shine and Bucky smiles, a twitch of his lips that happens more by muscle memory than anything else. Peggy’s nails scratch gently over the back of his hand as she leans close enough that even Fury and agent Hill won’t hear what she says: “See something you like?” 

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Are all captains this nosy?” 

Sam finishes his speech to roaring applause, which Bucky thinks is over-kill. “I think I gotta mingle for an hour more.” He says, apologetically, when he comes back. “I can send for a car if you wanna bounce.” Agent Hill and Fury offer to drop him off in Queens, because they’re all _nice people_ and Bucky _does_ wanna bounce, but he also doesn’t want to make Sam regret bringing him anywhere, so he waves a hand. 

“Mingle away.” He says. “You, too.” Nodding towards Peggy. “I’ll entertain myself.” Once his table is empty he gets up. He mostly wants to hide under it and find his Brooklyn boy, follow him around with his eyes. He gets lost in a fantasy for a second, where the server joins him under the table and talks about art, or just smiles at Bucky, maybe holding a bag of frozen peas to his cheek while Bucky eats an assortment of warm berries from the stupid wooden plate, but that’s a dumb fantasy so he shakes it off. This time when he leaves, he keeps leaving, walking through the front doors. There’s a doorman there, who nods at him, and some people leaving in a car, but not enough that Bucky’s bothered by it, so he keeps walking, boots sliding over grass that’s now wet with night dew. Far enough away from the house that the torches and the light from inside don’t reach him, he finds a tree in the senator’s garden, young oak maybe, strong and not too tall. He swings himself up, sitting on one branch and leaning his back against another. From here, he can see the figures in front of the houses and the cars pulling up while also calming himself the fuck down. Bucky didn’t have to learn anything about sitting still after HYDRA.

He’s fine. He did pretty well, actually. He talked to four people who weren’t Sam or Peggy - Nick Fury, Maria Hill, and two servers. The last server was different, even. Bucky likes talking to people that makes him feel like he’s a person. And the server had been looking at him, and had allowed Bucky to get behind him twice, and had said “see you around” like Bucky was a friendly acquaintance or a co-worker, or at least someone you didn’t have to be afraid of. And he’d felt so much like something Bucky had seen before, the dialect and the colors, that he’d almost gotten homesick every time he smiled. Bucky busies himself with committing the server’s face to memory. Narrow eyes and lips, shadowy eyelashes and high cheekbones and that _blush_. He remembers stuff from long ago, and a boy before the war. It wasn’t love, barely even serious, and it wasn’t anywhere people could see, but he’d blushed, Bucky thinks, at sweet words and the secrecy of it all, Bucky’s hand gliding over the buttons of his shirt. He remembers girls as well, but those memories come with a hint of bitterness - not towards the girls, who were sweet and clever and funny to be around, but towards himself, and the guys at the docks and the words they used. He spends some time remembering bits and pieces that lack chronology and context but are better than nothing, before he spots the car Sam had them drive over in and another behind it. He lets himself slide off the tree and walks back towards the house. 

Peggy’s waiting for him at the door of her car. They hug, tighter than before, and Bucky can hear the cameras flash from the entrance. They’ve been rumoured to be lovers before - Bucky could do a lot worse. “Take care now.” Her fingers press softly against his bruised cheekbone. “Your face is your best feature.” It’s a joke, and it’s funny, so Bucky doesn’t even have to force his laugh. Peggy hugs Sam and shakes the senator’s hand and then gets in her car to head back to Washington. Sam makes smalltalk with the senator for a while, and Bucky has to remember to control his facial expression so he won’t get another spread in a magazine about his ‘resting bitch face’. Sam had gotten angry at that, talking about trauma and brainwashing when he thought Bucky wasn’t paying attention. Bucky had thought it was a little funny.

Eventually they get to retreat behind closed doors and darkened windows and Bucky starts pulling on his collar immediately. He doesn’t mind the tightness of his suit, doesn’t mind whatever constricts around his chest or his legs but can’t deal with anything on his throat for longer than a few hours. Sam doesn’t comment on it other than saying “People are gonna think we made out in the limo now” when Bucky unbuttons his shirt just a little, to which he responds, knee-jerk, “You wish.” 

Sam almost laughs all the way home.


	2. II

Bucky decides what’s gonna happen the next day, looking through one of his notebooks. There’s a picture of sergeant Barnes, or him when he was younger, or the guy he used to be, depending on what kinda day he’s having. His old file from when he served, his name, his rank and serial number. He remembers saying that, saying only that, the only thing any of them were allowed to say in captivity. Chanting it to Zola back before Peggy got him pulled out. There are pages and pages of names and context clues, anything he remembers he’s written down somewhere, desperate not to lose it. He doesn’t have that desperation anymore, increasingly confident that if he remembers something now he’ll remember it tomorrow but not everything sticks around all the time. When Bucky thinks about Brooklyn, he doesn’t think about the borough a subway ride to the south. He thinks of one that’s a world away, and a war, and seventy years worth of ice and pain, and one that won’t come back.

There’s a page that has _Brooklyn_ written at the top, and then names scribbled in three different kinds of ink. Andy and Marie, Richie, Aaron, Hannah, Sylvia. Bucky doesn’t remember the name of the guy who blushed. There would be more names, if Bucky had ever stopped to talk to the guys he was with. Louise and Betty have a line in between them, and a question mark on top of it. There were girls, he remembers, who were together. Together-together, but it was easier for them, holding hands and kissing on each other even if they _weren’t_ together-together. 

Peggy was on one of those, she tells him. She even had a girlfriend when she was real young - kept a secret, obviously, but they were pretty serious, she says. Planned on running away and everything, but mostly in the way all sweethearts plan on running away. 

He picks up his phone, the one that has snake on it, two contacts and enough encryption to trip the whole of the CIA. He dials Peggy’s number and she picks up on the second ring.

“How do I tell Sam that ladies don’t do it for me?” 

Peggy doesn’t answer for a second, but then she scoffs, and there’s a smile in her voice when she speaks: “You told me.”

“I think you told _me_.” It had taken him a while to understand. Back before the war, what he felt for guys was adrenaline fueled and fun, nothing like the sweet camaraderie he had for women. He realized later that that was because the girls in Brooklyn were generally much more enjoyable to be around than the guys were, but for a long time he thought he’d grow out of the darkened encounters and settle down with a girl, like he was supposed to. Peggy Carter, in all her wisdom, told her that he didn’t have to.

Peggy laughs softly on the other end. She sounds sleepy, and Bucky looks at the clock above his oven, and then leans over the table to look between the drapes, just to make sure he hasn’t fucked up time again. He hasn’t. It’s ten in the morning. “Alright.” Peggy says. “‘I don’t like women, Sam’ seems like a fair contender.” She’s right, obviously, but Bucky over-simplifies certain things, and over-complicates others, and Peggy’s the smartest person he knows so it’s nice to check in with her. He wants to hang up now, though, because he’s even worse at phone calls than face-to-face, which is dumb and contradictory.

Would hanging up be rude? “Uh- “ He begins, fumbling for clues and coming up short when he’s got no real memory of phone etiquette. Peggy just laughs, which a lot of people have done next to him lately. Bucky doesn’t remember being this funny.

“Good luck, Bucky.” She says. “Do update me.” Then she hangs up. Real intuitive, that woman.

He walks to Sam’s place, a change of clothes in a bag, and a hat low over his forehead. Sam lives upstate, in an actual house, where the buildings are nicer and farther apart, but still generic enough that it’s not quite the same as hanging a neon sign that says “The Captain’s House” on it. Bucky could afford something like it, too, being on the government’s payroll, but he’d probably lose his mind a little. It’s a nice brownstone, door on the corner, but the interior is newer, a little shiny. Bucky gets buzzed in. 

Sam greets him at the door, already in his workout clothes. “What’s up, man.” Bucky accepts the handshake. “Ready to get your ass kicked?” Bucky does not accept that. He dumps his bag by the door and hangs up his hoodie and cap on the rack next to it, then follows Sam to what he calls his home-gym. It’s really just a room that used to be big office, now with a foamy mat on the floor and weights in the corner. Sam tapes up his hands and holds out the roll, questioning. Bucky looks down at his hands and stupidly, surprisingly, his thoughts go to the server who commented on his bruised eye. What’ll he say to bruised knuckles? It’s not like he’s gonna hit Sam hard, anyway. Will he be worried? Is it gonna scare him off? Or is it going to interest him, like it did some of the tougher girls back in Brooklyn. He shakes himself out of it, a little embarrassed, and takes the roll. It’s not like talking is his strong suit. He throws the tape on the ground after, looks up at Sam already raising his hands and takes the first swing. They’re a great duo. They both fight varied, heavy muscle groups combined with finer, more precise attacks. Sam uses his legs a lot, used to running and jumping and attacking from up high with his wings. He gets Bucky on his back with foot hooked around his knee but Bucky gets up quickly, getting Sam in his sternum hard enough to make him wheeze. Bucky’s a little single-minded, which is frustrating for his team members but mostly helpful when you’re trying to stop someone from blowing up New York. He’s heard some of the Avengers Peggy used to roll with talk about his “murder walk”. That’s fine. He can live with that. Sam’s knuckles graze his bruised cheekbone and he grunts, which Sam just laughs at, the dickhead. They spar for twenty minutes, eventually ending when Sam pushes him so hard against the wall the plaster makes a thin, complaining sound and Sam makes a T with his hands. “Break time.” He says, breathing heavily. “Good game, super soldier. I went easy on you.” That’s a joke, Bucky thinks, smiling.

They cool off in Sam’s kitchen, drinking beer from Sam’s fridge. The beer in the 21st century is definitely better, even if Bucky can’t get drunk from it this time around. Before Sam can even sit down, Bucky starts talking.

“S’another thing in a few days, right?” He directs the question at his beer and sees Sam sit down adjacently, on the other side of his smooth, white table. Bucky rubs the fingers of his right hand along the rounded edge of it.

Sam’s nodding in his periphery. “Yessir. Charity event at the royal library. Wanna come?” Bucky can’t decide if that was a joke or not, because he didn’t look up at Sam’s face in time, so he just answers.

“Can I?” 

Sam smiles, looking surprised but pleased and Bucky feels an airy sort of relief in his chest at Sam smiling because of him. “‘Course you can. Can I ask why? You don’t gotta answer, but…” Sam’s a nice guy, who knows Bucky pretty well, and takes care of him without being coddling. He knows Bucky doesn’t respond well to being pressured, but also that he doesn’t mind talking to him and Peggy. But when Bucky shrugs, something in his eyes changes - for all Bucky knows he can probably smell avoidance, the freak. “This is a different place, different hosts, I hope you know that. Don’t think you were that big of a fan of the senator. I mean, I think the catering company is the same - “ Sam pauses and Bucky wants to throw his hands in the air, ask him how the fuck he got there so quickly when Bucky’s barely admitting it to himself. “You _did_ see something you liked! Barnes, you sly dog-”

“Wilson.” 

“- I gotta know. I’ll _beg_ you if I have to, man, please tell me who it is.” Now that Sam knows Bucky won’t get uncomfortable or angry at his prodding, he’s lost the pretense, leaning towards Bucky with shining eyes. “Was it the chick with the freckles? Or the redhead? Will you let me be your wingman? We’ll get you a woman, come on.” Bucky guesses now’s a good time as ever. He looks up from where he’s been scraping the sticker of his bottle with a metal finger and meets Sam’s grin.

"I'm queer." He says, and Sam blinks, eyebrows lifting and face falling slack. Of course he's surprised. "Gay. Don't like women. I mean I do, they’re great, but. Don’t wanna kiss them.” Bucky intends to count the seconds of silence but he doesn’t even get to one.

"Alright." Sam says, nodding. There’s not a trace of malice in his voice, and he only shifts to lean back in his chair. “That's my bad, shouldn't have assumed. I'm glad you told me." Sam is smiling at him now, and it's a little unnerving to have him be this earnest. He fixes that, though, being the person that he is. “You still gotta tell me, though.” Bucky groans, softly planting his face against the table. 

He wants to crawl under it, so he does.

Sam knows him and Sam’s also a clever man, who has his kitchen table against one wall, which means that Bucky can lean against something, the hair on the top of his hair brushing against the underside. It’s nice here. Less bright. He looks at Sam’s knee. “You good, buddy?” Bucky hums.

“Don’t know his name.” He says, and all he can think of is the blush. “But he was the one you told to go find me.” Sam makes me an investigative noise, an ‘ _ah_ ’.

“Shoulda known you were into blondes.”

“I will stab you in your femur.”

Sam rearranges on his chair, giving Bucky restricted access to said femur, but continues. “As long as we can keep talking about Blondie I’d be cool with that.” Bucky grumbles. He thinks about how contradictory the server was - his build against how pretty his face was, the smoothness of his voice and him sounding so nervous, but then turning his back to Bucky like he wasn’t the most dangerous guy in the room.

“He sounded nervous.” Bucky says, resting his elbows on his knees. “And talked about art. And offered to get ice for my bruise, and then bailed.” He can hear Sam take a sip from his bottle so he reaches up to pat the table until his beer is pushed into his hand. 

Sam shifts on his chair and puts his foot on his knee, giving Bucky unrestricted access to the back of his femur, which to Bucky means that he doesn’t actually think he’s going to get stabbed. Trust is nice. “Sounds like you’ve got a foot in the door, then. You gonna ask for his number?” _That’s the plan_ , he wants to say, cocky and nonchalant, but he’s terrified, and also annoyed by the smug sound of Sam’s voice, so he retorts instead of being honest.

“You gonna ask for agent Hill’s?” 

“That’d be unprofessional.” Sam says, definitely avoiding the reality of the insinuation. “But if she _offered_ \- “

“You’d let her punch you in the face if she offered.” Sam laughs, chair rocking back on its hind legs a little, and Bucky smiles around the neck of his bottle. Sam clears his throat when he winds down, obviously moving onto something else which is _weak_ but Bucky lets him be, content and safe under the table. He blows over the rim of his bottle and it emits and tuneless, hollow whistle. Sam does one, too, a little darker and Bucky thinks he might get out in a minute.

“This is the longest we’ve ever spoken, and I’m proud of you, and I don’t wanna ruin the moment, but if you’re joining me this Saturday we do need to get you another suit.”

Maybe a few more minutes, then.

-

The Saturday event starts off terribly. 

Bucky does, on principle or in practice, not believe in luck. This is new, he thinks, since he remembers blaming a lot of shitty things on bad luck, but he supposes that’s bound to happen when choice is taken out of your hands. Today, though, he sort of feels like bad luck follows in his footsteps right from home. 

He wakes up to a panic attack, maybe from a nightmare or maybe just because his brain got things confused again. There’s spots over his eyes and on every other blink he can see frost-covered glass and washed-out blurry faces of people whose names were all ‘sir’ or ‘god, don’t talk to me’ for seventy years. He wards off in front of him and the faces turn growling, angry and disappointed like he’s wasting their time. It takes fifteen minutes of him clawing at his chest and convincing himself that the give of his bed underneath him is real, that he can see white wallpaper through Alexander Pierce’s head, before he can breathe normally again. The taste of metal and rubber in his mouth keeps pulling him back, until he licks his lips and realizes it’s blood, not the bite plate. He comes to under the desk in his bedroom. It’s right under the window, and there’s white golden light falling in slanting panes over his floor and the corner of his bed, dust in the air like a snowstorm. He makes an involuntary noise in his throat that sounds weak and a little sad in his ears and then he groans, wiping blood off his lip.

He’s relearning anxiety, and melancholy, and nauseating panic.

It’s a bittersweet process, but in the way that a lion cub is sweet and being pistol whipped is bitter. Bucky doesn’t know if panic is an emotion, but it’s organic - _something most living things experience one way or another_ according to his therapist, so he wants to cling onto it in the same way he does with humor and empathy and embarrassment, but it tires him out like three days on a mission with no sleep can’t even do. He gets the flicker of an image on the back of his eyes of a lion cub wielding a gun, and gets out from underneath the table.

He considers not going. He obviously wasn’t expected to, and Sam and Peggy won’t mind. Neither will his therapist, who’s smart enough to talk about self-care and forgiveness without actually saying the words out loud. But as he’s eating his cereal, staring at the suit he laid out on his bed, he knows he’ll probably end up going anyway.

First of all, it’s a nice suit. Sam said it was a gift from Tony Stark, which Bucky knows means Pepper Potts. It’s black, but a little shimmery, like there’s glitter all over it, and still subdued enough that Bucky could probably blend in with the background. He got a box of cufflinks as well, tiny little Captain America shields that Sam is going to hate _so_ much, so he can’t miss out on that, either.

Second of all, Bucky’s spiteful. 

Third of all, the server’s gonna be there. That’s most of the reason. The server said _see you around_ and Bucky has an incessant, undeniable need to show off a little. There’s a fantasy in the back of his head, where something happens at the library, and he and Sam have to draw weapons and he does something that makes the Brooklyn boy very impressed and charmed and Bucky gets to see that blush again, and the shining eyes. In the fantasy they kiss, and Bucky gets to feel warm skin against his face, and see that Coney Island sunset smile up close. He can’t figure out where these feelings come from. He’s relearned attraction as well, because he lives in New York and there’s a lot of handsome people here and he does go outside, no matter what Sam seems to think, but this infatuation is new, easy like nothing else but insistent and impossible to ignore. 

“I’ll go.” Bucky says, out loud, to no one in particular.

The second bad thing that happens is that Sam’s already looking worried when Bucky gets in the car. He’s not supposed to look that way yet, Bucky’s supposed to show him his stupid cufflinks and then he’s supposed to look annoyed, and supposed to bargain with Bucky to take them off, so some important CEO or politician won’t think he’s being tacky, which Bucky is absolutely being. But Sam’s got this soft furrow between his eyebrows when Bucky gets into the car and he looks up like he’s got something to say sorry for.

“Peggy’s not coming.” Bucky can feel his face go slack with disappointment, painfully honest, and Sam grimaces. “Sorry.” He says, even though it’s most likely not his fault at all. “Her and the agents got stuff to do in Washington. I would’ve -” He cuts himself off because Bucky’s waving a hand in a way that means ‘shut up it’s fine’ but also ‘shut up you’re making it worse’ so he gives another apologetic little smile and goes back to looking worried. Bucky goes back to fiddling with his cufflinks, which gets Sam’s attention. “Oh, you’re not - Barnes, you _can’t_ be serious.” And Bucky smiles. At least there’s that.

On their way, Sam says that this event will be shorter than the last, that it mostly is there to remind people of the Royal Library’s long-standing partnership with what used to be SHIELD. There will be standing and drinking and eating off of paper plate, but no make-up artists beforehand and no interviews. Pictures taken and cameras brandished like weapons, but no interviews. Bucky likes the royal library. Especially its map collection, and the old periodicals and the vintage comics - it has Captain America ones, and they’re only a little sexist. When they get there, an older woman in a shawl and droopy, ruby earrings welcomes Sam like they’re old friends, says “Wonderful!” with her arms out, and Bucky takes that word to keep for the night.

“Wonderful.” He says when they enter, and Sam smiles at him over his shoulder.

The third bad thing that happens, is that Bucky’s almost roped into answering questions. They’re in a big main room, the desks that are usually there taken somewhere else, tall gleaming bookshelves all around them. The light is soft, lit by nice, yellow lamps, the windows covered to protect the books. Bucky whispers ‘wonderful’ under his breath, repeating it when his eyes slip over the room because it fits in well. And because Bucky’s an idiot, apparently, he’s looking for Brooklyn at once, but there’s only a few servers there and they keep being interchanged by others, appearing and disappearing out a side door. Sam notices, pulling him a little closer with a hand on his arm.

“You find your boy yet?”

Bucky scowls. His word doesn’t fit in here.

When they part, there’s a nice-looking guy smiling at them, long white manicured fingers wrapped around a little microphone, another guy with a camera behind him. Cold sweat springs to the surface of Bucky’s skin on his hairline. 

“Falcon, how are you today?” The man asks, which means the camera’s already rolling, which means Bucky can’t just duck out that he wants to. Sam answers agreeably, but he’s agitated, too, Bucky thinks, tucking his shoulder behind. Then the man looks at Bucky, though, asking the same question. “And Winter Soldier, how about you?”

Bucky feels Sam jerk at the name. “I - wonderful.” He says, desperately trying to think of other words in the english language while the man blinks twice and then moves back to Sam. Bucky’s reeling a little, pulse quickening at being looked at like that, and asked a direct question when he didn’t expect it, and _still_ having a camera pointed at him. He feels scrambled. Sam speaks in a low voice, politely answering questions because he knows he can’t tell the guy to fuck off, even in the nicest way possible. Bucky’s heart is hammering, pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat, and in the bone of his jaw, like an echo in an empty body. He doesn’t have words to say if the guy tilts his little microphone towards him.

Their savior comes in the form of the woman who greeted them at the entrance, her ruby earrings swinging. She looks pleasantly angry. “This was _not_ supposed to happen.” She says, getting in between them. She barely reaches Bucky’s shoulder with the top of her head. Pleasantly enough, she throws the men out, all done in a very quiet, orderly sort of manner. The people around them barely even look their way. “I’m very sorry.” She says, turning to face them again, and Bucky likes her well enough, but if he has to make eye contact with another stranger he’s gonna scream. People are difficult to relearn. 

He’s still breathing a little too shallowly when the woman leaves, and Sam bends his head so he can speak quietly to Bucky without getting too close to his neck. “Want me to call you a car? I’d leave with you if I could, this party sucks.” Bucky huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He was doing good. He was supposed to dazzle the server, not have to count himself away from an anxiety attack. He flutters a hand over his shoulder, to where he knows there’s a section under one of the staircases, a little off and secluded.

“I’ll. Maps.” He says, brilliantly, and Sam lets him go. 

No one stops him on his way there, and he feels like he can breathe once he sits down, his back to the wall and his eyes on the dark underside of the staircase. There’s a glass panel on the desk in front of him, covering an 18th century map of Bulgaria. His fingers flutter over the Balkan mountains.

There are certain things Bucky hasn’t had to relearn. His pragmatism didn’t go away during his time with HYDRA. His smarts and precision, his good eye, his head for numbers and directions. Since before the army he’s known how to sit still and breathe quietly, how to take orders and read maps. The fun part - and the painstaking, awful part, the loveliest part - has been taking it for himself and making it his own. He moves two desks over, so he’s hidden a little more by the staircase, but also because he knows there’s an 18th century map of North America there, in fairly well-kept colors, and he traces the state lines with one finger of his metal hand. The pressure sensors are alive against the glass, feeling hard smoothness, touch and no temperature. 

He can’t have been sitting there for more than ten minutes when he picks up on footsteps outside of the soft scuffle on the other side of the staircase - ones that break off from the crowd and come closer to him. He looks up, ready to stand and apologize or just book it round the other side of the stairs, when the Brooklyn boy from before appears, looking hesitant, like he’s keeping a breath lodged in his chest. Brooklyn keeps a polite distance, holding two champagne glasses, and he speaks before Bucky can even think of the words.

“The, uh - the captain said to keep you company, and if anyone told me not to he’d vouch for me.” 

_Your boy_ , Bucky hears Sam say, and shivers a little, embarrassed. He’s going to stab Captain America in his dumb femur.

“He pay you?” Words are difficult to remember, and a little difficult to get out, and he has to remember articles specifically, clinging on to them. Brooklyn stops on the other side of the little desks, a few meters away.

“Kind of offered. I didn’t take it, though.” To Bucky, that means something good, something earnest, and he is holding two glasses, but he’s also a little stuck on the fact that Sam offered to pay a server to go talk to him.

He grumbles, sour. “You don’t have to. I’ll tell Sam to shove it -”

“I want to. I mean.” Brooklyn doesn’t look embarrassed at having cut him off at all. “If you’re okay with it. It’s not like pouring wine and arranging tiny sandwiches on silver plates is gonna be more interesting than talking to you.” Warmth spreads out in Bucky’s chest and it feels like a hot water bottle under his duvet in the winter, softly relieving. Brooklyn shrugs a little. “Are you okay with that?” Bucky nods so quickly the curls on the side of his head dance, bounce in front of his eyes, and he gets that Coney Island smile, bright and hopeful when Brooklyn sits down on the desk next to him. “I know you can’t get drunk.” He says, handing over the bubbles. “But I felt weird coming empty-handed.”

This kid could’ve shown up and demanded Bucky bring them champagne and a bucket of ice and it would’ve been fine, but Bucky doesn’t say that. 

Instead he latches on to the first thing he noticed about the guy that wasn’t creepy. “New Yorker?” He says, hoping he can hear the question mark at the end. 

The server nods, rubbing his right hand over his neck. “Yes, sir.” He says. “Born and raised Brooklyn.” _I know_ , Bucky thinks _. Somehow._ “You, too, right?” He nods. It’s nicer like this, trading pieces of information, even though the server probably knows a lot more about him than the other way around. Brooklyn is looking to the side, as if he’s stealing glances and not even trying to be sneaky about it, and Bucky appreciates his half-profile while answering.

“Brooklyn, yeah. A while ago.” Another sunset smile, wonky and with a little teeth. God, Bucky doesn’t remember how to do this, how to talk in circles around people until you get close enough to touch, but the guy makes it real easy to just go along. He reaches his glass forward, feeling only a little silly doing it, and even less so when the server grins and gives a breathy little laugh, like he’s pleasantly surprised or like Bucky’s done something unexpectedly charming. When the Brooklyn boy drinks, his eyes glide shut, pretty eyelashes fluttering and Bucky’s a little transfixed, looking over the edge of his glass.

Bucky’s relearning desire, and all the shapes it comes in.

It comes like an extension of need - the steady incline of Maslow’s pyramid, of _wanting_ food and sleep and touch because the machinery of his body will give out and give up if it doesn’t get it. It comes like random strokes of whimsy and vanity, of spotting something in a shop window and spending money on an impulse; that took a while to be okay with, the unnecessity of it. It comes in hedonism, in lust. He wants to see this kid with his head tipped back, pressed against something soft; he wants to see him spoiled and smiling; he wants to make him shake and feel good, and he has to blink rapidly to focus on what’s happening in front of him instead of the images flitting through his head. All the shapes of desire thrum like a live wire where Brooklyn is concerned.

The guy’s looking at him, a little wondering, but before Bucky can panic and scramble for something to say that will make him seem like a person, Brooklyn starts talking. “You know, it’s a pretty cool job,” he says, “catering. Especially with a company like this. Less bar mitzvahs and birthdays and more getting to spy on famous people.” then he cringes, eyes squeezing together. “Not actually spying obviously, you just see a lot of interesting characters.” He’s _considerate_ Bucky realizes - not nervous because he’s afraid, but careful because he doesn’t want to insult Bucky, just because he’s nice. It surprises Bucky into grinning.

“Is that what I am? An interesting character?” Brooklyn shrugs, looking down and then up at Bucky, under his eyelashes. Punk. 

“I’d say so? If anyone fits that description.”

“You don’t even know me.” In his mind, there’s an echo where his voice is looser and there’s a ‘ _honey’_ tacked on at the end, but Brooklyn smiles like it’s a challenge he’d like to rise to anyway.

“You don’t know me either and you took champagne from me.”

Bucky gives him an unimpressed look. Any kind of catering or staff at these things are scanned enough that even if this kid was some kind of terrorist who’d managed to sneak his way through the vetting process, there’d be nowhere to hide once Bucky had realized he’d been poisoned. But Bucky knows the kid knows this, so instead he says: “What do I need to know then?”

The Brooklyn boy smiles at him.

Bucky learns that he studied art in college, and that he draws on his own. The last bit is said with a healthy amount of self-irony, but he’s serious enough about it - serious enough to get all secretive and squirmy about it and it makes Bucky smile. The catering is to pay the bills, because New York is expensive and “everyone and their mother is an artist nowadays.” The guy’s fun, and polite and Bucky likes listening. It’s easy to listen, and Brooklyn is easy to look at.

At some point he looks up, midway through a word he laughs a little. “Sorry, I’m - sorry, I’m talking a lot.” Bucky shakes his head, putting his glass on the table in front of him. Neither of them have drunk a lot.

“It’s all good.” He says. “I’m bad at it either way.” 

Brooklyn boy looks doubtful. “Are you? Bad at talking?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky says, truthfully. “I’m better now than I used to be, but I know I was better before that. There’s just not a lot of people who want to talk to me and even less I want to talk to.” He regrets it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, because it’s honest in that raw and vulnerable kind of way that bares him a little too obviously

“Does that make me different or are you just being polite.”

“I think that makes you very different.”

Brooklyn doesn’t look like he’s trying to see through Bucky, or figure out a puzzle. He smiles like he’s all good with what’s in front of him and in the flicker of his eyes Bucky recognises something that probably won’t change in his lifetime - blue eyes focused on Bucky’s face, then flickering down over his body and up to meet his eyes and then off to the side, averting. Flirting still looks the same then. His stomach twinges, pleasantly enough, and it’s probably muscle memory when he leans back with his eyes on _his boy_ , stretching his legs out. His mind is going a mile a minute, trying to locate the next step - pet names and pick up lines and come-ons, when Brooklyn beats him to it.

He laughs, rubbing over the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Suppose this would be easier if you just had my number.” Bucky doesn’t quite gasp, and even with his memories restored he can’t remember the last time he gasped, but he’s so surprised that all he can do is breathe out and stare at the server whose eyes are flickering a little. Bucky’s trying hard not to smile, and before he can say something teasing Brooklyn laughs again, low and self-conscious this time, face going red. “God, that was bad, I’m sorry. I’m not assuming anything, I didn’t mean you had to have my number. I was thinking what I would do if I’d just met you anywhere else, I didn’t want to assume anything, I’m - sorry, if that - “

“Do you want to give me your number?” Bucky has his phone out from an inner pocket in a second, holding it towards the server. He blinks at him, a little owlishly, like he can’t believe his luck. It gives Bucky a little spark of confidence that has nothing to do with the fact that this guy just _asked_ for his number. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he says, a little drawled maybe, a little put-upon, “you didn’t go around asking for people’s digits back in my day. Only the real high-class gals had telephones at home, and if they did they still lived with their daddies.” He unlocks the phone and turns it towards Brooklyn, who still looks dumbfounded but has a smile curling his mouth up at the corner. 

“I wouldn’t worry. I’m not a high-class gal.” He’s looking down as he says it which is the only reason Bucky has the guts to mutter ‘I don’t know about that’ under his breath. He takes back his champagne and as Brooklyn blushes in beautiful Coney Island colours all the way under his shirt collar, Bucky averts his eyes to look down into the gold, because he’s polite. 

They talk a bit more, about Brooklyn the place which Bucky says plenty about, and about Brooklyn the boy - about impressionism that gives him a soft look in his wave-top eyes, about contemporary art, which Bucky learns is different than modern art, and through all of it Brooklyn keeps the flushed color in his face, and his eyes shine and he looks so happy it makes Bucky a little embarrassed but mostly content and elated that he had anything to do with it.

At some point - it takes Bucky way too long to recalibrate and decide it’s been somewhere between half an hour and forty five minutes which is an embarrassing gap of uncertainty - the server has looked over his shoulder three times, and Bucky smiles.

“I won’t be offended if you go back to your job, you know. Or,” he shrugs, mindlessly fussing with his suit jacket. “Not too offended at least.”

Relieved, the server ducks his head and laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “I can’t rely on the good word of the Falcon slash Captain America slash Samuel Wilson if I want to get paid.” He looks at Bucky for a few seconds, and Bucky looks back, feeling a squirming, happy feeling behind his navel - jesus. Like he’s thirteen again, at his father’s military camp, watching some sergeant in his PT gear. The waiter gets up and Bucky gets up with him, and they stand uncertainly for a second, mirroring each other before Brooklyn laughs at himself, or maybe at both of them, and rubs his neck. He smiles. “I’m gonna go.” He starts walking backwards, like he wants to keep his eyes on Bucky. “You can, uh -” pointing at the phone still in Bucky’s hand, “- you can drop me a text, if you want. I promise I won’t leave you hanging.” Here he turns around to duck around the staircase, but just before Bucky can hide his grin in his hands, he comes back, hand on the bottom of the steps. “And” He says. “My name is Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers.” And then he’s gone.

Bucky has a written list of people he wouldn’t mind spending time with, in his notebook. People he likes. Sam and Peggy, obviously, but they’re different. Fury and agent Hill too, in a distant, distrustful sort of way. There’s a romanian woman in his apartment building, and even though her accent drags him a little under sometimes, he likes her too, likes how she never bats an eye at Bucky’s arm. He’s okay king T’Challa, even though he’s a little weird, and his genius sister, Shuri, who’s a great combination of intelligent and funny, making it a lot easier for Bucky to wear the arm she made for him. He likes Natalia and her friend Barton, because they teeter on the ledge between compassionate and distant that Bucky likes

And then there’s Steve. Steve Rogers whose name Bucky, so unceremoniously that he’s almost looking out the window when he does it, adds to the list in his notebook, on a page with a little star at the top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it <333 if you do let me know! there will be more, when I find the motivation.


End file.
